Bright son of Ev'ning, lucid Star, O'er heav'n's pure azure spreads her gleam: Like thee serenely fair, By love united end the nuptial vow, Thou seest the mirthful Train Dance to th' unlabor'd strain, Seest bound with myrtle ev'ry youthful brow. Shine forth, ye silver eyes of Night, And gaze on virtues crown'd with treasures of delight. And thou, the golden-tressed Child of Morn, Bids bursting rose-buds hill and mead adorn, Save when they melt at sight of human woes. And o'er their heads unblended pleasure pour; Their mortal transports bound, But fill their cup of bliss, eternal Pow'rs, Till Time himself shall cease, and suns shall blaze no more. Each morn, reclin'd on many a rose New forms of dignity and grace, The bloom of hope, the snow of fear, To some poetic tale fresh beauty give, Or with swift fingers shall she touch the strings, As lifts the soul on seraph wings, Which as they soar above the jasper sky, Below them suns unknown and worlds unnumber'd leave. While Thou, by list'ning crowds approv'd, Of Roman Patriots and th' Athenian name; Th' applauding Senate; whilst, above thy head, Then bidding dragon-born Contention cease, But ah! thy public virtues, Youth, are vain In this voluptuous, this abandon'd age, When Albion's Sons with frantic rage, In crimes alone and recreant baseness bold, Freedom and concord with their weeping Train, Repudiate; slaves of vice, and slaves of gold! They on stary pinions sailing Through the chrystal fields of air, Mourn their efforts unavailing, Lost persuasions, fruitless care: Truth, Justice, Reason, Valour with them fly Beyond the vast Atlantic deep A dome by viewless Genii shall be rais'd, And, when her smiles rain plenty o'er the land, She ceases; and a strange delight Still vibrates on my ravish'd ear: What floods of glory drown my sight! What scenes I view! What sounds I hear! This for my Friend... but, gentle Nymphs, no more Dare I with spells divine the Muse recall: Then, fatal Harp, thy transient rapture o'er, Calm I replace thee on the sacred wall. Ah, see how lifeless hangs the lyre, Not lightning now, but glitt'ring wirel Me to the brawling bar and wrangles high Bright-hair'd Sabrina calls and rosy-bosom'd Wye. ODE XI. ON THE BIRTH OF A FIRST CHILD. BY THE REV. DR. JEFFRY, EXHAUSTED by her painful throes, For sure my pangs have equall'd thine. Sleep on, and waking, thou shalt see Heaven for no trivial cause ordains, |